The Passage

by Irina Shapiro

  “Lord Everly,” I began, but was interrupted.

  “Please, call me Max. Lord Everly was my father.”

  “All right, Max; would you not mind closing the place to tourists for a few months?” I knew what he’d say, but I still had to ask.

  “Not at all. The tourists will flock to this place once they hear that a movie was filmed here, especially if someone famous was in the cast. It will give us much-needed marketing clout, if you will. The house and grounds would be completely at your disposal, as well as the car park. The villagers would welcome the additional business as well, and what’s good for them is good for me. They still view me as something of a feudal overlord, I’m afraid, since we own some properties in the village, and they feel as if they work for me.”

  “All right, tomorrow it is then.” I glanced at the light beyond the window which had grown a deep shade of violet while we talked. It would be dark in a few minutes, and I was grateful for the merry fire that crackled in the fireplace and the warmth of the tea. My room at the inn last night had been drafty and uncomfortable, so I was glad to be warm and snug.

  “I do hope you’ll join me for dinner tonight. I had Stella prepare something special in your honor,” Lord Everly said, smiling at me warmly.

  “There was really no need. A sandwich in my room would have been just fine,” I replied, somewhat embarrassed to be the object of so much attention. I didn’t expect to be entertained, but Max Everly seemed determined to treat me like an honored guest.

  “There was every need, and I won’t take no for an answer,” Lord Everly said. “We dine promptly at eight,” Max announced, “and I think Mummy will come down to meet you. Her bark is worse than her bite. She’s actually quite a charmer when she cares to be, and I think you and her will get on like a house on fire.”

  “I’m sure we will. I’ll see you at dinner then.” I certainly hoped I wasn’t expected to dress for dinner. I only brought one nice dress just in case. In the meantime, I’d take a little walk in the wintry garden. There was plenty of light from the windows to light the path, and I was feeling restless after my nap.

  I dashed upstairs, took my coat and gloves and made my way out into the garden. The flower beds were nothing more than dark circles, and the rose bushes had been pruned and covered for the winter, making them look like shapeless globs in the near-darkness. A biting chill quickly turned my nose and cheeks red, but I huddled deeper into my coat and continued to walk. The inky sky was strewn with countless stars, which paled in comparison to the nearly full moon which shone like an electric torch in the darkened heavens. I tilted my head upwards, filled my lungs with the wintry air and closed my eyes, suddenly realizing that it’d been several hours since I thought of anything other than the forthcoming project. This was definite progress, and I smiled to myself and turned toward the door, ready to dress for dinner and meet Lady Everly.

  Chapter 2

  Lady Everly wasn’t quite as formidable as I expected, I mused as I got dressed the following morning. She was well into her eighties, and likely had his lordship later in life, which accounted for the doting looks she cast his way during dinner. I could tell that she wasn’t thrilled with the idea of the film being shot on the Everly estate, but deep down, I thought she understood her son’s reasons very well. She might think that speaking of money was vulgar, but she’d lived too long not to realize the necessity of having it, or the importance of having to pretend that one was financially sound. Naomi Everly did nothing to discourage me, and was actually very gracious, asking me numerous questions about my work and my life in London. I could see where her son got his beautiful manners from, as well as his ability to charm.

  Max Everly met me in the foyer just before 9 a.m., dressed in tweeds and ready to tour the house and grounds. The museum wouldn’t open until 10 a.m., so we had ample time to visit every nook and cranny of the old manor house before the first visitors of the day arrived. I had to admit that I was excited; I saw the old house from my window this morning, and it was everything I hoped it would be. If pictures did it any justice, it was the perfect location for the shoot.

  Our boots crunched on the gravel path as we walked toward the house. It was built entirely of gray stone, with a steeply pitched slate roof and numerous chimney pots rising into the nearly colorless March sky. The Everlys must have been wealthy at the time of construction since the casement windows, which were usually narrow due to the cost of glass, were wider and arranged in groups of three panes. The leaded glass reflected the morning light and brightened the façade of the otherwise severe-looking structure. The house was built in the traditional Tudor E shape, which I found pleasing to the eye due to its symmetry. The recessed front door was covered with a stone arch and decorated with heavy black hinges shaped in fanciful curlicues, but it opened smoothly, the hinges having been oiled recently.

  “There were several outbuildings, but I had them torn down,” Max explained as we stepped inside. “We’ve turned the old stables into a tea room; the visitors seem to like the rustic feel of the place, but the rest were destroyed to create a car park large enough for tour buses. There are days when we get several tour groups at the same time, you see, so it gets rather crowded.”

  I felt a chill as I stepped into the square foyer guarded by a shiny suit of armor, which looked as if it would spring to life at any moment. Lovely tapestries decorated the walls to my right and left, their colors still surprisingly vivid after several centuries. I supposed that not being exposed to electric light and hanging in the dim foyer helped preserve them from becoming faded. The manor had no central heating so the house was as cold as a tomb, and just as silent. A massive, carved desk stood just to the right of the entrance, its surface neatly stacked with brochures detailing the history of the manor house and family, showing glossy pictures of the gardens in full bloom, and providing general information about the museum and the website.

  “Is this the ticket counter?” I asked as I looked through the brochure.

  “No, the tickets can be purchased at the tea room. The manor house has no electricity, so we can’t process credit card purchases or print receipts,” Max replied as he led me into the front room. I stopped in the middle, feeling as if I’d just stepped back in time. It seemed as if nothing had been touched and the owners of the house would come back at any moment and go about their usual business. The wooden furniture looked anything but comfortable, but it was beautifully carved with embroidered cushions added for comfort. I stopped to admire the marble mantelpiece just as a young man walked into the room.

  “Good morning, Barry,” Max called out to the young man. “Barry is here to make a fire. We light fires in all the rooms during the winter months to avoid the visitors complaining of cold. Besides, it makes things appear more authentic, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sure it does, and the warmth doesn’t come amiss, I daresay,” I replied, shivering in my coat. It was actually warmer outside than it was in the house. I stood closer to the hearth as the fire began to crackle and fill the room with the pleasant smell of burning wood. The rest of the room was still frigid, but my spot was growing warmer by the minute, and I dared not move until I got warm. Max took a seat on one of the hard-backed chairs, ignoring the sign that asked visitors not to touch anything or sit on the furniture, and held out his hands to the fire.

  “Barry will have all the fires lit soon, and the house will feel considerably warmer. Sorry, I should have taken that into account, but I wanted to show it to you before the crowds descended,” he said apologetically.

  “Do you get visitors here all year round?” I asked, looking around the well-appointed room.

  “Oh, yes. I have an arrangement with several large tour companies; I give them a price break, and they include us in their tour. They won’t be too pleased if I close the museum down for several months, but they will just have to wait until we re-open.”

  “You seem sure that you will get the contract,” I teased Max good-naturedly.


  “I know we will. I could see it in your face the moment you walked into this room. This is just what you were looking for, isn’t it?”

  “I’d have to see the rest of the house to answer that, but yes, I think this would be suitable. This place has a certain aura. It’s like stepping into a bygone era,” I said.

  “It is; that’s why I thought the museum would be such a good idea. The money doesn’t hurt either; this place is a cash cow.” I could see that Max was very proud of his ‘baby’ and couldn’t blame him. The house really was a gem.

  “Come, show me the rest.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” Max replied as he sprang to his feet and led me back out into the hall.

  The rest of the house didn’t disappoint. The rooms were large and well proportioned, decorated with period paintings and exquisite tapestries. The furniture glowed from frequent polishing, and the heavy drapes and bed hangings were still vibrant and not terribly faded from age and sunlight. The clothes on display were spectacular as well, ranging from the early 1500s to the end of the eighteenth century. I didn’t want to gush too loudly and cause Max to increase the asking price, but most of the furnishings and some of the clothes could be used on set in lieu of bringing in our own. It would cut production costs considerably, which was always an added bonus.

  In my mind’s eye, I could already see how several rooms could be transformed into the chambers of Whitehall Palace and Charles’s private apartments. Of course, the façade of the palace would be computer-generated since the original palace was destroyed in the fire of 1698. All we had were some drawings and paintings to remind us of what the palace looked like, but with today’s technology, recreating the palace was a matter of a few keystrokes.

  Max and I left the house and stepped into the formal gardens situated behind the house. Of course, at this time of year it was nothing more than brown stumps and evergreen hedges, but come spring, the gardens would be glorious and perfect for shooting several key scenes.

  “So, what do you think?” Max asked as he rubbed his hands in anticipation. I could see the suppressed excitement in his eyes and was glad not to disappoint him.

  “I think it’s perfect. I’d just like to take a look at the church. There’s a scene that takes place in the crypt. Is there one?”

  “There is, as it happens,” Max replied happily, “and it’s perfectly sinister, as one would expect. I don’t think anyone’s been down there in ages. I’d love to escort you, but I have a meeting in the village. Will you be alright on your own?”

  “Of course.”

  “Excellent. I’ll walk as far as the church with you,” Max offered as he waved a greeting to an employee who was just opening up the tea room. I wondered how much the cost of admission was and made a mental note to come back later and check, and maybe have a cup of tea and browse the gift shop. I couldn’t help admiring Max’s business acumen. Life presented him with an opportunity, and he exploited it to its full potential.

  The walk to the church took a good half hour, but it was downhill, so it was easy going, especially since I had company and good conversation. I was chilled to the bone by the time Max finally left me at the gate of St. Nicolas’s church. Weak sunshine shone through gaps in the wispy clouds but offered no warmth, and the brisk wind had a bite to it that left my cheeks rosy and my fingers stiff with cold. I was glad to duck into the church and feel the breath of warmth that instantly enveloped me, physically and emotionally. I wasn’t much of a believer, but I always liked churches, with their air of serenity and the promise of something bigger than oneself.

  I sat down in one of the pews and just closed my eyes, inhaling the familiar scent and allowing my limbs to thaw before going about the business at hand. I wished I could pray, as there was much I needed to discuss with God, but this wasn’t the time. I had a job to do, so my personal turmoil would have to wait a little longer, although it was hovering at the back of my mind every moment of the day, the pain of my loss still fresh, slicing through my heart every time I thought of the past few months.

  I opened my eyes and gazed around the church. I’d done some research before I came, so I knew something about the history of the building. It’d been built in 1170 and by the mid-fourteenth century was much as it appeared today, at least from the outside. The church had been restored in 1847, and several key elements had been added since, such as the Jubilee Window which had been installed in 2007 to commemorate the Golden Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II. The window was magnificent; a seamless combination of old and new, with the traditional effect of stained glass combined with a somewhat modern, almost abstract depiction of the subject. Something about it reminded me of the works of Mark Chagall, despite the fact that his work centered mostly on Judaic themes.

  There was one particular feature I especially wanted to see -– the twelfth century carving in the North Transept known as the “Cheshire Cat.” According to local lore, the carving had been the inspiration for Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland, so I made my way to the North Transept and stood in front of the strange little gargoyle. I ran my fingers gingerly over the smiling face, remembering all the times I’d lost myself in the story.

  Alice in Wonderland had been one of my favorites as a child, a magical world I escaped to every time I was sad or afraid. No shrinking potion or evil Queen of Hearts could scare me as much as my own mother, who drank her sorrows away and eventually passed out only to repeat it all again the next day. She was always remorseful and ashamed in the morning as I got ready for school, but she didn’t have the strength of character, or maybe the desire, to get help. Drink was her only form of escape from a life she termed “pointless,” and “wasted.” I tried to remind her that I was still there and I needed her, but I was too young to understand that I simply wasn’t enough.

  I was a reminder of all she had lost; a carbon copy of the man who walked out on her without so much as goodbye and left her to raise a child alone on a meager salary. The money went to pay for the booze, and by the time I was eleven I had been taken into care; just another child forsaken by her parents and swallowed up by the system. I’d been one of the lucky ones; I’d ended up in a good foster home with a nice couple who treated me as if I were their own, but no amount of love they gave me could make up for the betrayal of my own parents. When I was seventeen, I’d heard that my mother died, but I hadn’t even bothered to attend the funeral despite the urging of my foster mother. I had too much anger and too much resentment to be able to say goodbye, so I stayed away. I never knew what happened to my father. He might have died as well, or he might be living somewhere, possibly with a new family, completely indifferent to the child he left behind nearly twenty years ago.

  I kissed my fingers and pressed them to the smiling mouth of the carving. “Thank you,” I whispered, not really sure if I was thanking the Cheshire cat for being one of my favorites or Lewis Carroll for writing the story.

  “Good morning,” a cheery voice called out as the vicar came in with a gust of cold air and removed his hat as a sign of respect for the house of God. “I’m Vicar Joseph Lambert. Very brisk out there this morning, isn’t it? Winter seems to be lingering this year.”

  “Yes, I’m just taking a moment to warm up,” I said as I turned to take his outstretched hand. “Neve Ashley, I’m the location scout for Legendary Productions.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. Max mentioned you’d be coming. I say, it would be thrilling to have our little church in your film. Any parts for an inspirational clergyman who can convey just the right amount of gravitas tempered with wry humor and understanding? A secret wedding perhaps?” he asked with an impish smile.

  “As a matter of fact, there is a secret wedding between James Stuart and Anne Hyde, but it was a Catholic ceremony, I’m afraid,” I replied, amused by his eagerness. The vicar was an older man, who appeared to be made entirely of spheres. His balding round head sat atop his rotund body, his moon-shaped face adorned by round spectacles that perched on a
rather bulbous nose. He did have a wonderful smile though, which made him appear as jolly as St. Nick.

  “Catholic, you say? Well, I don’t suppose the Good Lord would mind if I were just acting, would he now? It would be great fun, mind,” he added, beaming at me.

  “I’ll have a word with the director,” I whispered confidentially, despite the fact that we were quite alone in the church.

  “Really?”

  “I promise. Now, would it be possible to see the crypt?” I asked as I stuffed my gloves into my pockets and pulled the camera out of my bag. Lawrence Spellman would want pictures from every angle so that he could plan out his scene.

  “Oh yes, of course. No one ever really goes down there anymore, but it’s quite impressive. A few ancient Everlys are interred there, and there’s even a knight who returned from the Crusades only to die a week later of the fever. He has a lovely effigy. It’s just down those stairs. Do be careful. They’re rather worn and can be a bit slippery. Do you need me to accompany you?” he asked, clearly hoping that I’d say no.

  “Thank you, but I’m fine on my own. I just need to take a few photos and measurements.”

  “Excellent. Please join me for a cup of tea once you’re finished. I’ll be in the vestry.”

  “I’d like that,” I replied as I made my way toward the hole in the church floor from which well-worn stone steps descended into the underbelly of the church. Thankfully, there was a light switch which activated a lonely bulb in the center of the ceiling. A golden light filled the cavernous space, making it appear slightly less sinister, but spaces behind the thick columns supporting the ceiling remained lost in shadow, making me feel as if something would suddenly spring on me from the dark recesses of the crypt. I stood in the center of the crypt and looked around. The vaulted ceiling was fairly low, and the stone walls were decorated with fanciful carvings which at one point probably told a story, but were now nothing more than chipped and worn pieces of masonry. There were several tombs lining the walls, the lids covered with a thick layer of dust that hadn’t been disturbed in decades, possibly centuries. This will do very nicely, I thought, a good place to set the scene.